by Rachel Green
“I see.” Simon nodded.
“I told you all this at the time.” Jennifer took the seat vacated by Amanda. “Head like a sieve, you. That’s what Mum always used to say. I don’t know how you passed your exams.”
They looked up at the sound of footsteps. Amanda returned with the young Peter Numan, clad only in his jeans.
“Father.” Peter nodded a greeting.
Nicole clasped his arm. “Will you bash this door open, Peter? Father Brande here hasn’t got the muscle to manage it. He thinks Robert has been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Peter grimaced and landed a side kick to the lock. Wood splintered. He kicked twice more until the wood around the lock gave way and the door lurched with a resounding crack. He pushed it open and entered the room, the others following on his heels.
“Oh my Lord.” Simon made the sign of the cross.
Robert Markhew was slumped half across his desk, one hand trailing the sea of woolen carpet. His glassy eyes stared at the door, specks of blood peppering the pages of the book beneath his head. The dagger protruding from his back had allowed blood to run down his arm and pool on the floor.
“You were right.” Amanda pressed her fist against her teeth. “He has been murdered.”
“And burgled.” Peter pointed to the open window. “We’d better call the police.”
* * * *
Jennifer looked across at her brother, spotting the telltale signs he was over-tired. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and pinched himself on the arm. “I’ve already gone over all this with Sergeant Davies.” He was talking to a plainclothes policeman taking notes in front of him.
Detective Inspector White nodded. “I appreciate that, sir, and I’m very grateful, but I like to hear the events myself. It helps me form my own opinion, you see. Besides, you might think of something else with the re-telling.”
“Very well.” Simon took a long draught of the sweet tea Amanda had served earlier. Jennifer hoped it was warmer than hers had been. “I was woken by a phone call from Amanda at a little after eleven.” He nodded toward the maid. “At least I thought it was her, although when I got here she said she knew nothing about it and that as far as she knew, Robert was alive and well.”
“What time would this be, sir? How long was it between you receiving the phone call and arriving here?”
“It was about half-past eleven when we arrived.”
“We?”
“My sister had to drive. I’d had too much brandy.”
Jennifer nodded and the inspector scowled. “Was it a cellphone or a landline you received the call on?”
Simon frowned. “It was the house phone. Does it matter?”
White raised an eyebrow. “It might, sir. You can never have too many details. How did you know it was Amanda calling?”
“I recognized her voice. We’d had dinner here so it was still fresh in my mind.”
“I see.” White made a note in his book. “What happened when you got here?”
“Amanda answered the door and said he was alive, but I insisted upon seeing him. When I got inside, Nicole called down from the top of the stairs to find out what the commotion was. Amanda told her I thought Robert had been murdered and she went to check his bedroom. He wasn’t there.”
“So you checked the study?”
“That’s right. Amanda said that was where she’d seen him last. The door was locked so she fetched Peter to break it down. That’s when we found the body.”
“Did you touch the body at all, sir? Any of you?”
Simon shook his head. “No. Peter and Amanda were going to, but I told them not to. That’s when we called the police.”
* * * *
“Tell me in your own words, love.” Sergeant Davies sat at the table, his notebook open and his pencil poised. Jennifer thought he looked more professional than the inspector. She squeezed Amanda’s hand.
“I don’t know anything about it.” Amanda leaned forward showing more than an ample amount of cleavage for a decent girl “The first thing I heard was Father Brande hammering on the door. I thought he’d forgotten something.”
“Wait.” Davies looked up. “He’d been here earlier?”
“Yes,” said Amanda. “He and his sister had dinner with Mr. Markhew. They talked in the study after I cleared away the dishes.”
“I see.” Davies made a note. “Any idea what about?”
“No. It was none of my business.” Amanda tugged at her earlobe. “After Father Brande left I didn’t see him again until Peter bashed the study door open, though I know Mary saw him after me.”
“Thank you.” Davies referred to his notes. “Was the study window open when you saw him last?”
“No.” Amanda rubbed her eyes. “I closed and locked the windows myself before I did the bedtime drinks round. Since Mr. Markhew was in the study I left that one, but it was closed and locked before dinner.”
“What time were your bedtime drinks?”
“Around ten. I couldn’t give Mr. Markhew his, though. Mary asked me not to disturb him. I went to bed afterward.”
“All right, Miss Jones. Thank you.” Sergeant Davies looked at her. “We think it might have been an aggravated burglary. We found this in the earth under the window.” He showed her a cellphone in a plastic evidence bag. “Do you recognize it?”
“It looks like Richard’s.” Amanda pressed the screen through the bag and it lit up with a picture of a motorbike. “I couldn’t swear it’s his, though.”
“Is that all? You can see how upset she is.” Jennifer put her arm around Amanda’s shoulders.
Sergeant Davies nodded, the motion making his chins wobble. “I suppose so.” He flicked back a few pages of his notebook. “And you are?”
* * * *
“Is there anything else you can remember about the evening?” Inspector White looked at the priest. From what Jennifer could see, her brother looked close to breaking point. Any minute now and he’d be ranting about sinners and hellfire.
“I don’t think so.” Simon shook his head.
“There was that man on the road.” Jennifer felt it her duty to interrupt.
“Man on the road?” Inspector White stifled a yawn.
Simon glanced at his sister, nodding. “That’s right. How could I have forgotten? When we were on our way home last night, someone asked us the way here.”
“What time was that?”
“We left here at quarter past nine according to the clock in the car. It would have been about five minutes later.”
“Who was this man? Can you remember what he looked like?”
“It was no one we knew.” Jennifer spoke on her brother’s behalf. “The voice was familiar, though.”
“In what way?”
“It was a Birmingham accent, but he said ‘Lurches’ rather than ‘Larches.’” Simon tapped on the table to emphasize the point. “I know I’ve heard it before, though I can’t for the life of me remember where.”
“I see, sir.” Inspector White made another note. “Could you describe this man?”
“Not really.” Simon shook his head. “It was dark and I only caught a glimpse of him. All I can remember was he was unshaven and fairly young. He had one of those hoodies all the kids wear these days.”
“He had a rucksack.” Jennifer grinned, happy to remember the detail. “A black one with a yellow stripe.”
“I see. Thank you, sir.”
* * * *
“You are Miss Nicole Fielding?” Sergeant Davies started a fresh sheet of paper. “You were Mr. Markhew’s secretary, I believe?” He smiled at her. She looked almost lost in the bustle of policemen and scene-of-crime officers.
“That’s right.” Nicole had removed the curlers from her hair and now it fell in ringlets past her shoulders. “I got up when I heard the commotion downstairs.”
“Could you tell me your perception of the events of the evening?” He looked up into her eyes, surprised by their sharpness in contrast to her body language.
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“Father Brande and his sister left a little after nine and Mr. Markhew went into his study. I heard him talking to someone in there at nine-thirty.”
“Any idea who?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Did you hear what was said at all?” He studied her face. You could tell a lot from a face but Nicole Fielding kept her gaze leveled at him.
“A bit,” Nicole admitted. “Someone was asking him for money.”
“What did Mr. Markhew say to that?”
“He shouted a bit.” Nicole glanced around the room and lowered her voice. “He said ‘Do you think I’m made of money? You can ask all you want but you’re not getting a penny from me.’”
“Interesting.” Sergeant Davies wrote it down. “Do you have any clue of the identity of this petitioner? Man or woman would be helpful.”
Nicole shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
* * * *
Inspector White rapped on the bedroom door and waited. After a few moments he heard a moan from inside.
“Who is it?” The voice was languid, as if its owner had just been awoken. “Do you know what time it is?”
White glanced at his watch. “Two forty-six AM. Would you mind opening the door, Miss Markhew? It’s the police.”
Mary opened the door, rubbing her eyes. White looked at the purple-haired girl clad only in a t-shirt depicting kittens and managed not to raise an eyebrow.
“The police? Has something happened?”
“There’s been an incident downstairs. Someone broke into your father’s study.”
“Did they?” Mary blinked hard, steadying herself against the doorframe and blocking White’s view of the interior. “You mean Robert, though. He’s not my father, he’s my uncle.”
“My apologies, miss.” White looked away from her cleavage. “Could you tell me your perception of the events between Father Brande leaving and the household retiring for the night?”
“I suppose so.” Mary’s brow creased. “I said good night to Uncle Robert at quarter to ten and came up to bed.”
“Is that all?” White flipped a few pages backward in his notebook. “You didn’t happen to see anyone else about at that time?”
“No.” Mary gave a bark of laughter. “Apart from Amanda, of course. She was on her way to give Uncle a cup of tea and I stopped her because he didn’t want to be disturbed.” She lowered her voice. “He keeps porno magazines in his desk.”
“Does he indeed?” White smiled. “That doesn’t really concern us. What time did you speak to Amanda?”
“After my uncle, so about ten to ten, and then again at five to.”
“Again? Why?”
“She came back out of the kitchen with another drink. I had to tell her to leave him alone.”
“She was persistent then?”
“Yes. I came upstairs then, though. I don’t know if she tried a third time.”
“Thank you.” White closed his notebook. “If you don’t mind me asking, isn’t it a little early for a girl of your age to be in bed by ten?”
“It’s the house clock,” Mary said. “Everyone goes to bed early. Besides, I didn’t go to sleep straight away. I watched a film first and then…er…thought about Richard.”
“Richard Godwin? Your fiancé?”
“That’s right. He’s in London at the moment.”
“I see. Thank you, Miss Markhew. It’s probably not important, but what film did you watch? I don’t remember there being one on telly last night.”
“It was a DVD.” She dropped her voice. “Lovers in Latex. Do you want to borrow it for evidence? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
White coughed. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.” He turned to go back downstairs.
“What was taken?”
He turned back. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said there’d been a burglary. What was taken?”
“Ah. I wasn’t entirely clear with you there,” White explained. “I said that someone had broken into your uncle’s study. You’d best prepare yourself for a shock, miss. I’m afraid that your uncle’s been murdered.”
He was not expecting Mary to swoon. He thought women only did that in black-and-white films, or if their corsets were too tight, not that he saw many women in corsets since he’d left the obscenities division. The thud as the amply built Miss Markhew hit the floor made him wince.
He walked to the top of the stairs. “Miss Markhew has just fainted,” he called. “Someone get her a glass of water.” He looked back at the open door and dropped his voice to barely a whisper. “And a carpenter to fix the hole in the floorboards.”
Chapter 11
Inspector White waited on the landing while Jean Markhew and Nicole Fielding fussed over Mary and got her back into bed. Downstairs, the forensics team had arrived, and were causing more chaos by taping off whole sections of the hallway. It was fortunate the house had so many people here to clean up after them, he thought, glancing at the two officers dusting for prints.
The murder scene was off-limits to all but the tech boys and White took a few minutes out with a cup of lukewarm coffee to consult his notes. A whole chunk of the evening was unaccounted for between after Father Brande leaving and the discovery of the body. He looked up to see several of the house occupants watching him. Although subdued, the house was taking on a festive air and the buzz of conversation in the living room as the residents discussed their theories about the murder was beginning to interfere with his thoughts.
He stepped inside and the conversation ceased as fast as a Conservative club meeting when a woman walks in. Simon Brande was seated on the edge of the sofa, sipping tea from a china cup. White beckoned him. “Can I have a word, Father?”
Simon nodded and looked for somewhere to put his cup, settling with the floor at the side of the sofa. It was an accident waiting to happen but White made no move to alert anyone to the precarious position of a cup half-full of tea on a cream carpet. “We’ll use the dining room, I think.” He allowed Simon to lead the way. “There’s less likelihood of our being disturbed.”
“If you like.” Simon opened the door and took the seat nearest the door. White sat at the head of the table in Robert’s chair.
“Do you recall anything further about that the gentleman who asked for directions?” he asked. “You stated he was in his early twenties with an unshaven face and a hoodie. Is there anything else you can add? It’s not much to go on for an investigation.”
Simon shook his head. “Nothing. It was dark and all I could see of him was by the dashboard lights. He did smell of beer and cigarettes, if that’s any help, and he had a bag with him, a small rucksack, as if he’d traveled for some distance.”
White nodded and made another note in his book. “If that’s the case and this is our man, then he came here with the intent of seeing Markhew. This was no aggravated smash and grab.”
“That does seem likely,” Simon agreed, “assuming the lad is our murderer. I don’t see who here would have a motive.”
“Don’t you?” White sat forward in his chair. “What about blackmail?”
“Blackmail?” Simon shook his head. “Sir Robert didn’t need to blackmail anyone. He was comfortably off in his own right. Old money, I think, and a portfolio of investments as long as your arm from what I’ve heard, and that’s not mentioning his books.”
“I didn’t think he was a blackmailer,” White said. “But it’s certainly possible that he was being blackmailed. The secretary, Nicole Fielding, stated that she overheard him telling someone that he couldn’t afford to give them any money.”
Simon shrugged. “It’s possible.” He lowered his voice. “Jean asked my sister to talk to him about a settlement for Mary now that she’s engaged.”
“I heard about that,” White said. “To Richard Godwin, I believe, Markhew’s stepson. Any idea where he is? I was told ‘somewhere in London’ which isn’t terribly helpful.”
Simon smile
d. “Try the White Art in town. You’ll find that Richard has been staying there for the best part of a week, just to avoid his stepfather.”
“Has he indeed?” White made another note. “He’ll be the main beneficiary, I suppose. That gives him the oldest of motives.”
“Not Richard. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Simon sat back in his seat, stretching his legs under the table. “I’ve known him since he was an infant.”
“Do you really know anyone, I wonder?” asked White. “Everyone has something to hide, especially from a man of the cloth.”
“I can’t deny that.” Simon laughed. “I only recently found out something interesting about Grace Peters that she never confessed to me herself.”
“Oh?” White raised an eyebrow. “What might that be?”
Simon lowered his voice. “I suppose it can do no harm now that she’s dead. Robert only told me yesterday, but she was being blackmailed for the murder of her husband.”
White let out a whistle. “Henry Peters? The sly old bag. She had us convinced. We had it down as an accidental death.”
“We all did,” Simon said, “except for my sister. She was sure he’d been bumped off.”
“Why didn’t she come forward with that information?”
“No proof. She has this group of friends on the internet. They’re all into conspiracy theories, though if you ask me all they seem to do is gossip like old women.”
White looked down at his notes. “You were discussing it with Mr. Markhew this evening, you said.”
“Yes.” Simon leaned forward in his chair. “Robert asked me my advice about it. Grace Peters had asked him for help because of their closeness and because she’d run out of money. He was torn between turning her over to the police and helping her out. While he thought about it she killed herself. He was wracked with grief and thought that the only thing left for him to do was to bring the blackmailer to justice. He asked me if I’d any idea who the blackmailer was.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Why would I?”